The Missing Revolver
(Tuesday, November 9; 3 p. m.)
“The Mater’s a crabbed old soul,” Greene apologized offhandedly when
we were again in the drawing-room. “Always grousing about her doting
offspring.—Well, where do we go from here?”
Markham seemed lost in thought, and it was Vance who answered.
“Let us take a peep at the servants and hearken to their tale: Sproot
for a starter.”
Markham roused himself and nodded, and Greene rose and pulled a silken
bell-cord near the archway. A minute later the butler appeared and
stood at obsequious attention just inside the room. Markham had
appeared somewhat at sea and even uninterested during the
investigation, and Vance assumed command.
“Sit down, Sproot, and tell us as briefly as possible just what
occurred last night.”
Sproot came forward slowly, his eyes on the floor, but remained
standing before the centre-table.
“I was reading Martial, sir, in my room,” he began, lifting his gaze
submissively, “when I thought I heard a muffled shot. I wasn’t quite
sure, for the automobiles in the street back-fire quite loud at times;
but at last I said to myself I’d better investigate. I was in negligé,
if you understand what I mean, sir; so I slipped on my bath-robe and
came down. I didn’t know just where the noise had come from; but when
I was half-way down the steps, I heard another shot, and this time it
sounded like it came from Miss Ada’s room. So I went there at once,
and tried the door. It was unlocked, and when I looked in I saw Miss
Ada lying on the floor—a very distressing sight, sir. I called to Mr.
Chester, and we lifted the poor young lady to the bed. Then I
telephoned to Doctor Von Blon.”
Vance scrutinized him.
“You were very courageous, Sproot, to brave a dark hall looking for
the source of a shot in the middle of the night.”
“Thank you, sir,” the man answered, with great humility. “I always try
to do my duty by the Greene family. I’ve been with them——”
“We know all that, Sproot.” Vance cut him short. “The light was on in
Miss Ada’s room, I understand, when you opened the door.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you saw no one, or heard no noise? No door closing, for
instance?”
“No, sir.”
“And yet the person who fired the shot must have been somewhere in the
hall at the same time you were there.”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“And he might well have taken a shot at you, too.”
“Quite so, sir.” Sproot seemed wholly indifferent to the danger he had
escaped. “But what will be, will be, sir—if you’ll pardon my saying
so. And I’m an old man——”
“Tut, tut! You’ll probably live a considerable time yet—just how long
I can’t, of course, say.”
“No, sir.” Sproot’s eyes gazed blankly ahead. “No one understands the
mysteries of life and death.”
“You’re somewhat philosophic, I see,” drily commented Vance. Then:
“When you phoned to Doctor Von Blon, was he in?”
“No, sir; but the night nurse told me he’d be back any minute, and
that she’d send him over. He arrived in less than half an hour.”
Vance nodded. “That will be all, thank you, Sproot.—And now please
send me _die gnädige Frau Köchin_.”
“Yes, sir.” And the old butler shuffled from the room.
Vance’s eyes followed him thoughtfully.
“An inveiglin’ character,” he murmured.
Greene snorted. “_You_ don’t have to live with him. He’d have said
‘Yes, sir,’ if you’d spoken to him in Walloon or Volapük. A sweet
little playmate to have snooping round the house twenty-four hours a
day!”
The cook, a portly, phlegmatic German woman of about forty-five, named
Gertrude Mannheim, came in and seated herself on the edge of a chair
near the entrance. Vance, after a moment’s keen inspection of her,
asked:
“Were you born in this country, Frau Mannheim?”
“I was born in Baden,” she answered, in flat, rather guttural tones.
“I came to America when I was twelve.”
“You have not always been a cook, I take it.” Vance’s voice had a
slightly different intonation from that which he had used with Sproot.
At first the woman did not answer.
“No, sir,” she said finally. “Only since the death of my husband.”
“How did you happen to come to the Greenes?”
Again she hesitated. “I had met Mr. Tobias Greene: he knew my husband.
When my husband died there wasn’t any money. And I remembered Mr.
Greene, and I thought——”
“I understand.” Vance paused, his eyes in space. “You heard nothing of
what happened here last night?”
“No, sir. Not until Mr. Chester called up the stairs and said for us
to get dressed and come down.”
Vance rose and turned to the window overlooking the East River.
“That’s all, Frau Mannheim. Be so good as to tell the senior
maid—Hemming, isn’t she?—to come here.”
Without a word the cook left us, and her place was presently taken by
a tall, slatternly woman, with a sharp, prudish face and severely
combed hair. She wore a black, one-piece dress, and heelless vici-kid
shoes; and her severity of mien was emphasized by a pair of
thick-lensed spectacles.
“I understand, Hemming,” began Vance, reseating himself before the
fireplace, “that you heard neither shot last night, and learned of the
tragedy only when called by Mr. Greene.”
The woman nodded with a jerky, emphatic movement.
“I was spared,” she said, in a rasping voice. “But the tragedy, as you
call it, had to come sooner or later. It was an act of God, if you ask
_me_.”
“Well, we’re not asking you, Hemming; but we’re delighted to have your
opinion.—So God had a hand in the shooting, eh?”
“He did that!” The woman spoke with religious fervor. “The Greenes are
an ungodly, wicked family.” She leered defiantly at Chester Greene,
who laughed uneasily. “‘For I shall rise up against them, saith the
Lord of hosts—the name, the remnant, and son, and daughter, and
nephew’—only there ain’t no nephew—‘and I will sweep them with the
besom of destruction, saith the Lord.’”
Vance regarded her musingly.
“I see you have misread Isaiah. And have you any celestial information
as to who was chosen by the Lord to personify the besom?”
The woman compressed her lips. “Who knows?”
“Ah! Who, indeed? . . . But to descend to temporal things: I assume
you weren’t surprised at what happened last night?”
“I’m never surprised at the mysterious workin’s of the Almighty.”
Vance sighed. “You may return to your Scriptural perusings, Hemming.
Only, I wish you’d pause _en route_ and tell Barton we crave her
presence here.”
The woman rose stiffly and passed from the room like an animated
ramrod.
Barton came in, obviously frightened. But her fear was insufficient to
banish completely her instinctive coquetry. A certain coyness showed
through the alarmed glance she gave us, and one hand automatically
smoothed back the chestnut hair over her ear. Vance adjusted his
monocle.
“You really should wear Alice blue, Barton,” he advised her seriously.
“Much more becoming than cerise to your olive complexion.”
The girl’s apprehensiveness relaxed, and she gave Vance a puzzled,
kittenish look.
“But what I particularly wanted you to come here for,” he went on,
“was to ask you if Mr. Greene has ever kissed you.”
“Which—Mr. Greene?” she stammered, completely disconcerted.
Chester had, at Vance’s question, jerked himself erect in his chair
and started to splutter an irate objection. But articulation failed
him, and he turned to Markham with speechless indignation.
The corners of Vance’s mouth twitched. “It really doesn’t matter,
Barton,” he said quickly.
“Aren’t you going to ask me any questions about—what happened last
night?” the girl asked, with obvious disappointment.
“Oh! Do you know anything about what happened?”
“Why, no,” she admitted. “I was asleep——”
“Exactly. Therefore, I sha’n’t bother you with questions.” He
dismissed her good-naturedly.
“Damn it, Markham, I protest!” cried Greene, when Barton had left us.
“I call this—this gentleman’s levity rotten-bad taste—damme if I
don’t!”
Markham, too, was annoyed at the frivolous line of interrogation Vance
had taken.
“I can’t see what’s to be gained by such futile inquiries,” he said,
striving to control his irritation.
“That’s because you’re still holding to the burglar theory,” Vance
replied. “But if, as Mr. Greene thinks, there is another explanation
of last night’s crime, then it’s essential to acquaint ourselves with
the conditions existing here. And it’s equally essential not to rouse
the suspicions of the servants. Hence, my apparent irrelevancies. I’m
trying to size up the various human factors we have to deal with; and
I think I’ve done uncommonly well. Several rather interesting
possibilities have developed.”
Before Markham could reply Sproot passed the archway and opened the
front door to some one whom he greeted respectfully. Greene
immediately went into the hall.
“Hallo, doc,” we heard him say. “Thought you’d be along pretty soon.
The District Attorney and his _entourage_ are here, and they’d like to
talk to Ada. I told ’em you said it might be all right this
afternoon.”
“I’ll know better when I’ve seen Ada,” the doctor replied. He passed
on hurriedly, and we heard him ascending the stairs.
“It’s Von Blon,” announced Greene, returning to the drawing-room.
“He’ll let us know anon how Ada’s coming along.” There was a callous
note in his voice, which, at the time, puzzled me.
“How long have you known Doctor Von Blon?” asked Vance.
“How long?” Greene looked surprised. “Why, all my life. Went to the
old Beekman Public School with him. His father—old Doctor Veranus Von
Blon—brought all the later Greenes into the world; family physician,
spiritual adviser, and all that sort of thing, from time immemorial.
When Von Blon, senior, died we embraced the son as a matter of course.
And young Arthur’s a shrewd lad, too. Knows his pharmacopœia. Trained
by the old man, and topped off his medical education in Germany.”
Vance nodded negligently.
“While we’re waiting for Doctor Von Blon, suppose we have a chat with
Miss Sibella and Mr. Rex. Your brother first, let us say.”
Greene looked to Markham for confirmation; then rang for Sproot.
Rex Greene came immediately upon being summoned.
“Well, what do you want now?” he asked, scanning our faces with
nervous intensity. His voice was peevish, almost whining, and there
were certain overtones in it which recalled the fretful complaining
voice of Mrs. Greene.
“We merely want to question you about last night,” answered Vance
soothingly. “We thought it possible you could help us.”
“What help can I give you?” Rex asked sullenly, slumping into a chair.
He gave his brother a sneering look. “Chester’s the only one round
here who seems to have been awake.”
Rex Greene was a short, sallow youth with narrow, stooping shoulders
and an abnormally large head set on a neck which appeared almost
emaciated. A shock of straight hair hung down over his bulging
forehead, and he had a habit of tossing it back with a jerky movement
of the head. His small, shifty eyes, shielded by enormous
tortoise-rimmed glasses, seemed never to be at rest; and his thin lips
were constantly twitching as with a _tic douloureux_. His chin was
small and pointed, and he held it drawn in, emphasizing its lack of
prominence. He was not a pleasant spectacle, and yet there was
something in the man—an overdeveloped studiousness, perhaps—that gave
the impression of unusual potentialities. I once saw a juvenile chess
wizard who had the same cranial formations and general facial cast.
Vance appeared introspective, but I knew he was absorbing every detail
of the man’s appearance. At length he laid down his cigarette, and
focussed his eyes languidly on the desk-lamp.
“You say you slept throughout the tragedy last night. How do you
account for that remarkable fact, inasmuch as one of the shots was
fired in the room next to yours?”
Rex hitched himself forward to the edge of his chair, and turned his
head from side to side, carefully avoiding our eyes.
“I haven’t tried to account for it,” he returned, with angry
resentment; but withal he seemed unstrung and on the defensive. Then
he hurried on: “The walls in this house are pretty thick anyway, and
there are always noises in the street. . . . Maybe my head was buried
under the covers.”
“You’d certainly have buried your head under the covers if you’d heard
the shot,” commented Chester, with no attempt to disguise his contempt
for his brother.
Rex swung round, and would have retorted to the accusation had not
Vance put his next question immediately.
“What’s your theory of the crime, Mr. Greene? You’ve heard all the
details and you know the situation.”
“I thought the police had settled on a burglar.” The youth’s eyes
rested shrewdly on Heath. “Wasn’t that your conclusion?”
“It was, and it is,” declared the Sergeant, who, until now, had
preserved a bored silence. “But your brother here seems to think
otherwise.”
“So Chester thinks otherwise.” Rex turned to his brother with an
expression of feline dislike. “Maybe Chester knows all about it.”
There was no mistaking the implication in his words.
Vance once more stepped into the breach.
“Your brother has told us all he knows. Just at present we’re
concerned with how much _you_ know.” The severity of his manner caused
Rex to shrink back in his chair. His lips twitched more violently, and
he began fidgeting with the braided frog of his smoking-jacket. I
noticed then for the first time that he had short rachitic hands with
bowed and thickened phalanges.
“You are sure you heard no shot?” continued Vance ominously.
“I’ve told you a dozen times I didn’t!” His voice rose to a falsetto,
and he gripped the arms of his chair with both hands.
“Keep calm, Rex,” admonished Chester. “You’ll be having another of
your spells.”
“To hell with you!” the youth shouted. “How many times have I got to
tell them I don’t know anything about it?”
“We merely want to make doubly sure on all points,” Vance told him
pacifyingly. “And you certainly wouldn’t want your sister’s death to
go unavenged through any lack of perseverance on our part.”
Rex relaxed slightly, and took a deep inspiration.
“Oh, I’d tell you anything I knew,” he said, running his tongue over
his dry lips. “But I always get blamed for everything that happens in
this house—that is, Ada and I do. And as for avenging Julia’s death:
that doesn’t appeal to me nearly so much as punishing the dog that
shot Ada. She has a hard enough time of it here under normal
conditions. Mother keeps her in the house waiting on her as if she
were a servant.”
Vance nodded understandingly. Then he rose and placed his hand
sympathetically on Rex’s shoulder. This gesture was so unlike him I
was completely astonished; for, despite his deep-seated humanism,
Vance seemed always ashamed of any outward show of feeling, and sought
constantly to repress his emotions.
“Don’t let this tragedy upset you too much, Mr. Greene,” he said
reassuringly. “And you may be certain that we’ll do everything in our
power to find and punish the person who shot Miss Ada.—We won’t bother
you any more now.”
Rex got up almost eagerly and drew himself together.
“Oh, that’s all right.” And with a covertly triumphant glance at his
brother, he left the room.
“Rex is a queer bird,” Chester remarked, after a short silence. “He
spends most of his time reading and working out abstruse problems in
mathematics and astronomy. Wanted to stick a telescope through the
attic roof, but the Mater drew the line. He’s an unhealthy beggar,
too. I tell him he doesn’t get enough fresh air, but you see his
attitude toward me. Thinks I’m weak-minded because I play golf.”
“What were the spells you spoke about?” asked Vance. “Your brother
looks as if he might be epileptic.”
“Oh, no; nothing like that; though I’ve seen him have convulsive
seizures when he got in a specially violent tantrum. He gets excited
easily and flies off the handle. Von Blon says it’s
hyperneurasthenia—whatever that is. He goes ghastly pale when he’s
worked up, and has a kind of trembling fit. Says things he’s sorry for
afterward. Nothing serious, though. What he needs is exercise—a year
on a ranch roughing it, without his infernal books and compasses and
T-squares.”
“I suppose he’s more or less a favorite with your mother.” (Vance’s
remark recalled a curious similarity of temperament between the two I
had felt vaguely as Rex talked.)
“More or less.” Chester nodded ponderously. “He’s the pet in so far as
the Mater’s capable of petting any one but herself. Anyway, she’s
never ragged Rex as much as the rest of us.”
Again Vance went to the great window above the East River, and stood
looking out. Suddenly he turned.
“By the by, Mr. Greene, did you find your revolver?” His tone had
changed; his ruminative mood had gone.
Chester gave a start, and cast a swift glance at Heath, who had now
become attentive.
“No, by Gad, I haven’t,” he admitted, fumbling in his pocket for his
cigarette-holder. “Funny thing about that gun, too. Always kept it in
my desk drawer—though, as I told this gentleman when he mentioned
it”—he pointed his holder at Heath as if the other had been an
inanimate object—“I don’t remember actually having seen it for years.
But, even so, where the devil could it have gone? Damme, it’s
mysterious. Nobody round here would touch it. The maids don’t go in
the drawers when they’re cleaning the room—I’m lucky if they make the
bed and dust the top of the furniture. Damned funny what became of
it.”
“Did you take a good look for it to-day, like you said?” asked Heath,
thrusting his head forward belligerently. Why, since he held to the
burglar theory, he should assume a bulldozing manner, I couldn’t
imagine. But whenever Heath was troubled, he was aggressive; and any
loose end in an investigation troubled him deeply.
“Certainly, I looked for it,” Chester replied, haughtily indignant. “I
went through every room and closet and drawer in the house. But it’s
completely disappeared. . . . Probably got thrown out by mistake in
one of the annual house-cleanings.”
“That’s possible,” agreed Vance. “What sort of a revolver was it?”
“An old Smith & Wesson .32.” Chester appeared to be trying to refresh
his memory. “Mother-of-pearl handle: some scroll-engraving on the
barrel—I don’t recall exactly. I bought it fifteen years ago—maybe
longer—when I went camping one summer in the Adirondacks. Used it for
target practice. Then I got tired of it, and stuck it away in a drawer
behind a lot of old cancelled checks.”
“Was it in good working order then?”
“As far as I know. Fact is, it worked stiff when I got it, and I had
the sear filed down, so it was practically a hair-trigger affair. The
slightest touch sent it off. Better for shooting targets that way.”
“Do you recall if it was loaded when you put it away?”
“Couldn’t say. Might have been. It’s been so long——”
“Were there any cartridges for it in your desk?”
“Now, that I can answer you positively. There wasn’t a loose cartridge
in the place.”
Vance reseated himself.
“Well, Mr. Greene, if you happen to run across the revolver you will,
of course, let Mr. Markham or Sergeant Heath know.”
“Oh, certainly. With pleasure.” Chester’s assurance was expressed with
an air of magnanimity.
Vance glanced at his watch.
“And now, seeing that Doctor Von Blon is still with his patient, I
wonder if we could see Miss Sibella for a moment.”
Chester got up, obviously relieved that the subject of the revolver
had been disposed of, and went to the bell-cord beside the archway.
But he arrested his hand in the act of reaching for it.
“I’ll fetch her myself,” he said, and hurried from the room.
Markham turned to Vance with a smile.
“Your prophecy about the non-reappearance of the gun has, I note, been
temporarily verified.”
“And I’m afraid that fancy weapon with the hair-trigger never will
appear—at least, not until this miserable business is cleaned up.”
Vance was unwontedly sober; his customary levity had for the moment
deserted him. But before long he lifted his eyebrows mockingly, and
gave Heath a chaffing look.
“Perchance the Sergeant’s predacious neophyte made off with the
revolver—became fascinated with the scrollwork, or entranced with the
pearl handle.”
“It’s quite possible the revolver disappeared in the way Greene said
it did,” Markham submitted. “In any event, I think you unduly
emphasized the matter.”
“Sure he did, Mr. Markham,” growled Heath. “And, what’s more, I can’t
see that all this repartee with the family is getting us anywheres. I
had ’em all on the carpet last night when the shooting was hot; and
I’m telling you they don’t know nothing about it. This Ada Greene is
the only person round here I want to talk to. There’s a chance she can
give us a tip. If her lights were on when the burglar got in her room,
she maybe got a good look at him.”
“Sergeant,” said Vance, shaking his head sadly, “you’re getting
positively morbid on the subject of that mythical burglar.”
Markham inspected the end of his cigar thoughtfully.
“No, Vance. I’m inclined to agree with the Sergeant. It appears to me
that you’re the one with the morbid imagination. I let you inveigle me
into this inquiry too easily. That’s why I’ve kept in the background
and left the floor to you. Ada Greene’s our only hope of help here.”
“Oh, for your trusting, forthright mind!” Vance sighed and shifted his
position restlessly. “I say, our psychic Chester is taking a dashed
long time to fetch Sibella.”
At that moment there came a sound of footsteps on the marble stairs,
and a few seconds later Sibella Greene, accompanied by Chester,
appeared in the archway.